


Stories We Tell

by ledtherevolution



Series: Sentiment [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Mentions of Suicidal Thoughts, No Smut, SO MUCH FLUFF, Sherlock is Not a Virgin, WIP, anymore that is, domestic life, maybe next time, sorry - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-17
Updated: 2016-01-17
Packaged: 2018-05-14 10:44:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5740681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ledtherevolution/pseuds/ledtherevolution
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock tells John the way he fell in love</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stories We Tell

There are several things John Watson didn’t know about the twenty-four months Sherlock had been MIA, but he knew that there had been a wedding. And that there had been a honeymoon to France, of all places. That Sherlock - _the_ Sherlock Holmes - had fallen in love. He couldn't rest not knowing about the two's little holiday. He set out to coax it out of one of them after they got back.

The opportunity struck while Sherlock was having one of their off days where he was alone for a few hours; Jim was out to coffee with a couple of friends from his new workplace – Cambridge University as a maths professor. One thing John had noticed - among some of the more recent developments - Jim had found a love for floral arrangements and had decided to buy one every Friday. _Flowers_ , Sherlock had spat while in a particularly volatile mood and this time Jim was just out of earshot, _they’re everywhere John, and they wilt and droop and then die and I’m ‘not allowed to touch them and/or conduct any experiments on them or else’ and what is the point? Here have a half-dead weed I found in the garden and John he has them_ everywhere! Eventually, Sherlock had taken a liking to them and their florally smell that seemed to linger on his clothes, even after he’d ‘accidentally’ made a contact explosive with lithium oxide and burned an entire cardboard box. The smell of roses still clung to the dressing gown. 

Anyway, on this fateful evening, Sherlock was sitting cross-legged on the stool in the kitchen, a half-eaten bagel dangling from his pale fingers, microscope right under his nose. But he wasn’t paying attention to it. Instead, he was smiling down at his phone, texting away furiously.

"Uh, Sherlock?" John asked, settling heavily into one of the seats across from his friend.

"Mmm..." Sherlock answered. John was lucky- Sherlock was in an _unusually_ good mood, so naturally, he'd be _talkative._ Sherlock and talkative shouldn't be in the same sentence most of the time.

"I need to ask you something."

He tipped his head upwards so fast John thought he may have given himself whiplash, confusion and mild desperation tugging at his features. It lasted for maybe three seconds and then he looked smug again.

"You're here to ask about Jim, aren't you?"

"How could you deduce that?" John asked, just trying to be pleasant, like old times. Just to egg him on a bit.

"Never mind that, just ask what you wanted to ask."

"Just...tell me - I...I don't really know what I want to know. Just...what _happened_ I guess," he said, shifting up onto his elbows, eager to hear the story Sherlock was going to tell.

"You...guess."

"Sherlock-"

 

_The first night was the hardest, the two of them sitting across from each other, Sherlock’s eyes locked on Jim’s; who’s eyes were out the window of the plane. He was resting his chin on the heel of his hand. He looked bored, pensive and somewhat calm._

_“Sherlock,” he drawled, “I am flattered, but I’d definitely appreciate it if you were to direct that…brooding gaze somewhere else.”_

_“What for?” he replied easily._

_“It’s making me all tingly,” he said, a smirk tugging on the corners of his mouth. But it didn’t reach his eyes. Noted. The stewardess came to their seats and asked him where they wanted to go, after all it was Mycroft’s plane. Sherlock looked expectantly at the man across from him, who in turn, straightened up and smoothed down the front of his suit._

_“Let’s start with France,” he said after a while._

_“Specific,” Sherlock said._

_“Boulogne-Billancourt,” he said, and it was genuine. Something was terribly wrong. The sinking feeling twisted his stomach into knots. Something was going to happen._

“Well what happened?” John asked, unable to keep his mouth shut.

“He had been planning his suicide for months, meticulously setting it in motion, using the rooftop as the smoke and mirrors so no one would suspect him of wanting to die. When I inadvertently saved his life with disarming him, the plan had been derailed. He hadn’t planned on living through it, so the rest of his life wasn’t as fulfilling. He’d already made the plans necessary to get away from his web, to destroy his portion of it. He, somehow, managed to convince the rest of the interested world he was dead. Oddly enough, I don't find myself concerned enough to really give it a lot of thought. It has become more of a hum in the back of my mind, restlessly twisting but if he wanted me to know, he'd have already told.”

“So he’d been depressed,” John added, trying to understand the story he was presented with.

“More or less.”

“Was it all an act? Just a fix for...boredom?” Sherlock just hummed an answer that John perceived as a yes. John nodded.

“So how’d he do it?” Sherlock looked up, brows knitted together.

“Do what?”

“You know,” John said, tipping his head from side to side. “Woo the only consulting detective into breaking the one rule he’d held above the rest?” He made a wide dip of the head, placing the bagel on the countertop.

"It's not in they way you're expecting, I assure you."

_It was the last night of the two weeks they’d spent in Istanbul, they were standing on the balcony, a glass of red wine in Jim’s hand. They were watching the street below, people bustling here and there with shopping bags for the people they’d forgotten presents for. After all, it was Christmas Eve. He’d received texts from his parents and Mycroft about wishing him ‘Many happy returns,’ and he wondered if John had seen the video he’d left him yet. But that wasn’t the most important thing on his mind as of yet. Jim was leaning into him easily and they were standing in complete silence, but it was the most comfortable he’d been in weeks. He chose to steal a glance at Jim and that was a mistake. His hair hadn’t been gelled in the weeks they’d been gone from London, he’d abandoned the suits he favoured and replaced them with simple things._

_Like tonight, his hair hung in his face and the hoodie he was wearing covered the palms of his hands. He was wearing tight, solid black track pants that tapered at his ankles. Black socks with white striped covered his feet and Sherlock couldn’t ever remember feeling this way about anyone. Jim looked back over at him, quickly darting his eyes away, a blush rising in his cheeks. And that was probably the cutest thing Sherlock had ever seen. Something pulls in his chest and all he wants to do is hold him close. Jim seems to sense the shift in his mood and turns, eyes wide and lips slightly parted, eyebrows raised. Sherlock turned with him and felt Jim’s hands on his chest before they registered in his eyes. Jim leaned to each side, Sherlock bending down and Jim slowly met him, their lips barely brushing. Their breathing became the loudest thing on the balcony, even above the sound of the taxis and music. Sherlock froze, lips tingling with the sensation and before he knew it, they were kissing. It was a slow pull of lips, a gentle tug, soft breaths brushing against his nose and of all the things he had ever experienced, this was the most…emotional. He could feel Jim’s fingers grazing the back of his neck, pulling him closer, the-_

"If this is going in the direction I think it is, then I get it. You don't have to go into detail."

"Alright," he said with a laugh. A _laugh!_

"So you fell for each other-"

"From proximity, in mindsets and location. We spent so much time together and with his façade dropped, it was hard not to. Out of all of the people in the world, I'm glad we picked each other." John felt the need to either throw up or congratulate the two of them. He didn't now how he felt - truly - about Jim being the one Sherlock chose. But it did seem fitting, they were two of a kind, but polar opposites. John should have seen it coming. He didn't really know why he had this sinking in his chest, but he did.

"Talking about me, are we?" came a voice from the front door, the sounds of shoes being toed off and the door being shut completed the idea that Jim was home. Sherlock straightened, a genuine smile in his eyes. Jim rounded the corner, reaching out to take Sherlock's tea from the counter. Earl Grey, their favorite. Jim took a sip and leaned against the counter, staring at the two of them expectantly. "Well, go on. Pay me no mind," he said, swirling the tea around.

"I was just going," John said, beginning to stand and collect his coat, but both men looked at him with that face of _no you weren't, we can_ smell _when you're lying._ "Guess not," he murmured, settling down again.

"Anyway," Sherlock said, "We balance each other, it's not something we planned, but I will testify that it was the best of the side effects of our 'getaway'."

"Agreed," Jim muttered, taking a long sip from the mug.


End file.
